Sheep Dog and the Wolf: A Story of Terrorism and Response, and the Sheep Dogs Who Protect

By Carl Douglass

Sheep Dog and the Wolf: A Story of Terrorism and Response, and the Sheep Dogs Who Protect, tells about Hunter Caulfield--a man who had long since shaken off his extraordinary past—Hunter had been in the nefarious CIA Phoenix program during the ‘police action' in Vietnam, and had learned a dangerous skill set. His old buddy, now the assistant DCIA, recruits him to be a Sheep Dog—a man who protects the rest of us, the sheep. The U.S. tries diplomacy, bellicosity, threats, embargoes, and a police approach to terrorist devils-incarnate, but none of them works. The president cannot reasonably launch another Iraq or Afghanistan without more harm coming to America. The American public is growing ever more restive. Senior diplomats, military officers, and the administration need a new approach, a new weapon. Sheep Dog is that weapon--an assassin who is a nearly perfectly crafted hunter and killer; a man who can work alone, and who can be disavowed and denied in a moment by a whim of the president.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Publication Consultants
• Release date: Nov 10, 2015
• ISBN: 9781594333972

Carl Douglass

Author Carl Douglass desires to live to the century mark and to be still writing; his wife not so much. No matter whose desire wins out, they plan an entire life together and not go quietly into the night. Other than writing, their careers are in the past. Their lives focus on their children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.

Book preview

hostile.

PREDATOR AND HIS PREY

CHAPTER ONE

November, the year before

Camille and Genevieve bounded across the Jambo House Deluxe Villa to crash into their grandfather’s hard legs and were deftly swept up into his arms and held aloft in his wiry powerful upper limbs. The game was so often repeated that the twin two year old girls squealed their delight at being tickled and frightened by their precarious positions.

Their grandma, Rosie, playing her required protective role, exclaimed as usual, Put those kids down, Hunter Caulfield! You’re going to break one of their necks, and then won’t you be the sorry one?

Hunter laughed. Yes dear, just as you say, he said with a serious face and a mock chastened look.

His twinkling eyes said otherwise. He put down the little blond troublemakers and gave each of them an affectionate pat on their diapered behinds that propelled them into the kitchen. Hunter moved quickly to his eldest grandson, Evan—age ten—and put him into a headlock and dragged the squawking boy into the kitchen. The rest of the family had already assembled at the table. Four year old Daniel, twenty-six year old Daniel, Sr. and his wife, Marie—young Daniel’s mother and father and Hunter and Rosie’s son and daughter-in-law—and Stephen and Donna—parents of Camille, Genevieve, and Eva—were dutifully seated at the breakfast table where a pot of steaming oatmeal full of whipped cream, brown sugar, and raisins waited. Donna was Hunter and Rosie’s only living daughter. Their first daughter—Donna’s elder sister, Pat—died in a car crash twenty-nine years ago, just after Hunter came home from Viet Nam.

Hunter had doted on, spoiled, and overprotected, his beautiful curly-haired blond daughter, Donna, throughout her life and had only relinquished her to Stephen Grandel when she was twenty-two; and Hunter was finally convinced that Donna was madly in love with the young man and that he was going to be as successful a young neurosurgeon as he was a resident at Johns Hopkins. Hunter and Rosie expressed their gratitude to God every day that Dr. Grandel was loving and fully supportive of his trophy wife in all of her rather dubious extra-curricular activities.

With the permissive upbringing Donna had experienced and the fully happy childhood they had provided, she was a brashly confident and very competent young wife and mother. She was an extreme-sport junkie and her parents complained regularly that she was in no position to put herself at such risk what with her marital and maternal responsibilities. Her husband smiled indulgently whenever the subject came up, and Hunter and Rosie shrugged in capitulation as they had done throughout Donna’s privileged childhood and adolescence. For all of her daredevil character, she had developed an admirably stringent Protestant work ethic. She had an MBA from Princeton and a PhD in mining engineering from MIT. She had a great job with Consolidated Mines and could have supported her family quite without the meager salary Stephen brought home from his residency position. She was also a marathoner with an enviable record—and a parachutist, scuba diver, and free-hand mountain climber with an anxiety provoking list of broken bones. Her family, friends, business associates, and competitors all admired most her sparkling personality and quirky sense of humor.

The rest of the family found their places at the table. Daniel, Sr.—the Caulfield family scion—was the religious one of the family, having converted to the Mormon Churchlargely to please his wife-to-be Marie. He later developed a convert zealot’s annoying immersion in his new religion. Hunter had a live-and-let-live approach to religion and was more amused than annoyed by his son’s surprising choice since Hunter and Rosie had pretty much left religion up to their two children’s choices as adults. Daniel had become a High Priest and a member of his local bishopric while his daredevil sister had become a quietly unobtrusive atheist. Marie had decided to join her husband in his somewhat pushy zeal for the church that she had taken more-or-less for granted before her marriage and Daniel’s conversion. Marie was a rather plain young woman, but had blossomed into a church leader in the women’s and children’s organizations of her church once she had become activated.

Say grace, please, Daniel, Hunter asked. At family gatherings, Daniel did almost all of the praying—both public and private—for the rest of them. He nodded an okay to his dad.

Father in heaven, we thank thee for this fine meal and for the hands that provided and prepared it. Bless the food that it will nourish and sustain us through the day and help us to do good. Bless our family and keep us safe and free from illness, harm, or accident today. Bless the missionaries in the field and our armed forces that they, too, will be safe. Watch over those who are in harm’s way to protect us and our liberties. Help the missionaries to find the pure in heart. These and all other blessings we pray for in the name of thy son, Jesus Christ, amen.

Hunter gritted his teeth slightly at the pure in heart reference knowing that his son was targeting him to take the missionary lessons which Hunter—the paterfamilias—had thus far gracefully dodged.

Sorry, but I pretty much pooped out after a full day of rides and junk food yesterday at the Epcot Center, and I have to get some work done today. Hunter said after the prayer. What’s on the agenda?

Granpa, you have to come. Nobody else will take me on the tilt-a-whirl. Evan pleaded.

Sorry, big grandson, that’ll have to wait until tomorrow when we hit Tomorrow Land and Fantasy Land. We still have most of a week to do all of those throw-up rides again. Give me a little rest, okay?

Evan frowned.

You can join us at noon, dear, Rosie said. We have the Crystal Palace on Main Street, U.S.A. scheduled for the whole family for lunch. We’re going to meet the Swensons and their kids for their little Katrina’s third birthday party. You can’t miss it.

It was an order from the ship’s captain, and Hunter knew better than to protest.

I’m going to come back early this afternoon to get in some running time, and Marie is going to run with me for a while, Donna said. Daddy, will you help watch the kids while we’re out running?

When was the last time I ever refused you anything, Mizz Princess?

Donna laughed affectionately. Both of them knew that he would do anything she asked because she would never ask anything he did not like or of which he really disapproved. She loved him deeply for his kindness and evident love for her—a love second only to that she shared with her handsome husband.

So, I get stuck with the little monsters on the Family Magic Tour all morning, groused Stephen with an indulgent smile.

He was happy to be away from the hospital for the three days he could get off and did not begrudge any of the time he had with his children and his livewire wife.

We ought to get an early start, get the quick pass tickets, and exhaust these kids early on; so, we can eat in peace without having to chase them all over the place, urged Daniel, Sr.

Marie started to clean up the breakfast dishes; Donna rounded up the children; and she and Rosie scrubbed their faces and hands, changed Daniel Jr.’s tee shirt that looked like he had strained his oatmeal through it, replaced the twins’ sandals for the third time that day, and smeared all of the children with SPF 50 sunscreen. After a chaotic last minute set of plans and revisions and the women’s fervent discussion about what they were going to wear, the party of nine made it out of the door and onto the Disney World shuttle bus. Marie ran back and got sun hats for Daniel and the twins and barely made it to the shuttle bus as its doors were closing. Hunter laughed heartily at the scene that suggested to him a hapless set of adults trying to herd cats. He watched as the shuttle bus drove off past the overly neat—but attractive—Lake Buena Vista in front the Jambo House.

He sat down on the couch with his top of the line Tecra laptop and began to review the encrypted Starbright Corporation’s year end spread sheet and was pleased with what he was seeing. It had been a banner year for the company, and the best thing about it was that his son, Daniel—despite all of the distraction he put up with from his church activities—was proving to be an altogether competent CEO. Hunter had doubted that the company would be able to secure the top-secret Homeland Security anti-hacking computer contract, but Daniel had made a brilliant presentation to the secretary—better than Hunter could have done, he admitted—and they got the contract. Hunter felt like it was a Boeing type opportunity, and Daniel was shepherding the work along successfully.

Hunter had to smile about his son: he had a masters in computer science and was a world class programmer which made him a world-class hacker. He knew the world’s major hackers by name, telephone number, and e-mail address. Most of them were young Russian free-lancers, and more than a few were part of the Russian Mafiya. Hunter had learned a great deal about those polar opposites from Daniel and was amused that his puritanical son helped the company along by quietly serving up information via both venues. His son had taught Hunter a great deal about the technology of hacking and the murky characters who lived in the electronic matrix.

It was up to Hunter as owner to determine the year-end bonuses; and he had to figure the appropriate sums to be handed out before Christmas, two weeks away. There were just over a four hundred executives, consultants, and employees to factor in. The first task was to set a total for the bonuses and then to haggle with himself about how much each was to get. It was a mildly daunting task, but the effort was made easier because of the significant profits Starbright was enjoying.

Once in the park, Rosie volunteered to chase Camille and Genevieve around, and thus to avoid the really gut wrenching rides that the girls and their older kids liked so much. She was amazed at how much repetition the two year olds could tolerate. She had grown accustomed to the fact by tending them as they watched the same inane Disney children’s movies and cartoons over and over. The movies—and indeed—the resort’s rides drove her halfcrazy; but the chance to be with the little girls for three hours was a delight to the doting grandmother.

Camille was the physical daredevil, knowing no fear of injury. She did—however—have an amusing fear of the large Disney characters walking about the park. Scawy was her routine response whenever Mickey or Donald or Pluto came up to charm her. She wanted nothing more than to get on the Teapot ride one more time. Genevieve was less enthusiastic than Camille for the rides but was a follower and tagged along behind her vivacious identical twin obediently. She was—however—by far the more gregarious one of the pair, and was the one that worried her watchful grandmother the most. The pretty little curly-haired tow-head did not know the concept of stranger and went about blithely engaging total strangers in her two year old conversations and making them laugh. She raced away from Rosie at every opportunity and started talking to the first person she met: hippies, tattooed hip-hoppers, elderly men in wheel chairs, blue-haired over dressed matrons from Poughkeepsie, black people, South Americans, Africans, Catholic priests, Mormon missionaries, harried young mothers. The child was incorrigible, and her enthusiastic little face captivated almost everyone she encountered.

The family enjoyed a respite from the constant activity by going on Disney’s Family Magic Tour of the Magic Kingdom, a two hour guided tour which was contrived as an inter-active quest to save Magic Kingdom theme park from the dastardly plans and bumptious actions of the day’s Disney villain. The children were delighted by the tricky clues, rather transparent diabolical puzzles, and the zany scavenger hunt. As noon approached, Rosie was feeling the need to sit, and she wanted little more than to get to the Crystal Palace and sip a big Diet Pepsi until everyone else was seated and the vivacious young waiters and waitresses served the child-favored junk food to the young ones and a large Greek salad for her. The diet drink and the salad were orders from her internist because she was getting a substantial middle-aged spread. Her curves were becoming slopes; she was getting wrinkles where here laughlines once were; and, horror-of-horrors, she was beginning to see grey hair—silver threads among the gold.

Evan and Daniel, Jr. got along famously, and Evan took very careful care of his younger cousin. After the tour, Marie and Donna had only to sit on the park benches and keep a watchful eye on the two boys in their detective hats as they raced from one thrill ride to another. The day was balmy with clear skies and a gentle sun. It was a rare opportunity for the two young women to share confidences, family gossip, and concerns about their husbands’ burgeoning careers, their sex lives, their worries about getting fat, what they were going to wear to the adults only dinner that night—everything except religion and politics. Their sisterhood—or more accurately—their deep cousinhood, required tight lips about those subjects.

Both had to stifle deeply held sentiments, but each knew better than to broach such subjects or even to let slip comments that called attention to their well-known differences of opinion. Donna did not mention evolution, and Marie did not give in to her roiling desire to proselytize her heartfelt Mormon religious convictions. They were as physically different as they were philosophically. Donna was blond, firm, slim, and animated. Marie was soft, even voluptuous. She had black hair and enough of a Mediterranean look to be taken for an Italian. Donna displayed a good bit of skin and a tattoo of Hermes—the messenger of the Greek gods—on her left shoulder, and had two piercings in each ear. Marie wore long sleeve, high neck, ankle-length dresses and hardly wore make-up let alone a tattoo or a piercing—God forbid—which made Donna think of pioneers or fundamentalists, a thought that never passed her lips.

Oh, good, it’s quarter of, Donna observed.

The boys have had enough. At least, I’ve had enough, let’s hie ourselves to the Crystal Palace and pig out on a bunch of transfats and diet drinks, laughed Marie.

The cousin-friends each took her son in hand and started walking across Adventure Land towards the restaurant. They kept a sharp look out for Rosie—the universally beloved family matriarch and ever generous grandmother. Each young woman thought what a perfect day it was: carefree, safe, fun, and nondemanding. They were both hungry, and a big chilled macaroni salad, barbecue chicken and overloaded meat sandwiches seemed like the crowning quest to top off a delightful easy morning.

Hunter looked up from his laptop, and the time registered on him. It was eleven-fifteen; and he had not even showered yet. He reluctantly put away his work and locked the laptop with its serious corporate and governmental secrets in the special safe that the hotel had provided. He shaved and showered quickly, put on a loud flowered Hawaiian shirt, khaki cargo shorts, and sandals—‘Jesus boots’, he called them frequently enough to warrant a disapproving glance from his overcharged religious son—admired himself in the mirror, and laughed at the shirt that he would not have been caught dead in back home. It was quarter to noon when he rushed out of the front door of the hotel and caught the shuttle.

Rosie and her daughter and daughter-in-law met up with the Swensons and their four rambunctious children who ranged in age from three to eleven and were all handfuls even by their doting parents’ admissions.

How are you, birthday girl? Rosie asked, kneeling to give a hug to the precocious elfin girl, Abby, whose birthday they were about to celebrate.

I’m good, she said. I’m fwee years old today. It’s my birfday!

We all have really fun presents for you, sweetie, Donna said beaming at the friendly little busy-body.

I wike pwesents, Abby declared as if it would be news to her listeners.

Where’s Hunter? Bob Swenson asked Rosie as they looked for their reserved tables.

Evan was teasing the twins.

Evan, stop that, Marie said. We’ve got enough noise and chaos in here without you adding to it.

Evan sneaked one more rib tickle on Camille, then obeyed.

Daniel, Jr. proudly announced that he had found their names on the tables, and the two families trouped to find their places. The children of the two families intentionally intermingled so as to sit by their friends. Rosie sat by Janice Swenson who was looking pretty worn from her morning’s duties of herding the crazies, as she affectionately referred to her children. She and Rosie were both genuinely relieved to be able to sit and to bring each other up on the latest in their families. Rosie and Janice were as alike in their attitudes, aptitudes, and preferences as two sisters could be. Rosie was the quintessential mainstream WASP, and Janice was an African-American choir director in her AME church. Neither was all that religious; so, they got along splendidly. Race did not enter into it.

Donna sat by her brother, Daniel, Sr., after he had complained to her that she hadn’t said a word to her since they had all arrived in Orlando.

You prejudiced against Mormons, little sister?

Get over yourself, little brother, and tell me what’s new in the secret dark corporate world nowadays.

Bob Swenson left a vacant chair for Hunter.

Rosie said, He’ll be here on the dot. He’s nothing if not punctual, you know. It’s because he was toilet trained too early.

Winnie the Pooh brought the children lemonades, and they all settled down to enjoy the unhealthy sweet drinks.

CHAPTER TWO

Hunter showed his pass at the entry bar of the Magic Kingdom, submitted to the cursory security inspection, and passed through the uplifted entrance bar and into the amusement park at seven minutes to noon. He walked briskly up Main Street, U.S.A. dodging the crowds. He rounded a gentle curve past the souvenir boutique and could see the Crystal Palace restaurant directly ahead. He would make it almost on the dot, and Rosie would not be able to give him the standard lecture on tardiness. Hunter watched as Pooh and Friends characters busily moved in and out of the entrance of the restaurant and scurried around among the seated guests. Hunter could see only one other person entering the pavilion. Odd—it was a very warm noontime—but the man was wearing a long coat—probably one of the strolling performers.

Ten seconds and ten yards closer, the pavilion disappeared in a clap of thunder unlike Hunter had ever heard or seen even in his military experience. The concussion of the blast lifted the two-hundred pound man and hurled him twenty feet away from the explosion. He crashed into a display rack of sombreros, sarapes, and Mickey Mouse hats, upending it. He was aware of being unable to hear despite seeing the expressions on people’s faces that indicated screaming. He was also aware of intense heat which seemed to emanate from the foot deep pile of sarapes covering him. The last thing he saw was a mushroom shaped cloud, an indelibly familiar configuration which seemed altogether dream-like; then his vision went white; and he lost consciousness.

Hunter had brief moments of semi-consciousness during which he was dimly aware of needle punctures, the irritation of a catheter in his penis, of voices lifted in argument about when he would be able to talk, and of the clatter, hum, and smell of a hospital. For the most part he was unconscious, and only later he began to sleep. As he began to arouse, he became aware of the characteristic tick-tock hum of a cardiac monitor. As his consciousness began to increase, Hunter started to become restless and uncomfortable from a sphygmomanometer cuff on his arm, from the now out-right painful Foley catheter, and from being tied down. At times he panicked. He was back in the jungles of Viet Nam, tied down, and being tortured. He tried to shout out his name, rank, and serial number; but he knew that he was not making sounds. Finally, he furtively attempted to open his eyes but could not. The crack of vision he could muster was black, coal mine shaft black. He sank into despair knowing that he was alive and blind. The pain in his penis caused him to think that he had stepped on a brown-betty mine and was emasculated. He frantically tried to move his fingers and toes and strong hands held him down. He felt a warm flush in his vein, and sleep intruded once more.

After another long sleep, Hunter again gradually became aware of his body, then of the room, then of a hand on his shoulder. This time he remained quiet, having learned his lesson from the consequences of his previous outburst.

Hi, I’m your doctor, Mr. Caulfield. I’m Dr. Risotti, one of Orlando Regional Medical Center’s hospitalists.

Hello, doctor, I’m Hunter Caulfield. But I guess you already know that.

Yes, sir, I do. I have been taking care of you for the last eight days.

Eight?

’Fraid so. You had quite an experience, my friend. What do you remember about what happened?

Not much. I was headed towards one of the Disney World theme restaurants to have lunch with my family. I heard a huge blast, felt like I had been hit by a cannon ball, saw a brilliant fireball and a mushroom shaped cloud, and that’s about it.

You were blown backwards some twenty or so feet and knocked a clothes rack over you. The clothes fell on you and covered you up; so, you didn’t get burned to a crisp. You did get a pretty severe head injury. The neurosurgeons opened your skull and took out a blood clot called a subdural hematoma. They saved your life. You have been over a week in coming around, but you’re going to do okay.

I’ve got a couple of questions, doc.

Shoot.

Have my wife and kids or grandkids been by to see me? Were they upset seeing me all bandaged up and all of the tubes and stuff?

I’m sorry Mr. Caulfield, but I really don’t know anything about your family. The city has been all but overwhelmed by the casualties from the explosion. I’ll have to try and find out what I can about your family.

Thanks.

It’s the least I can do.

I have another couple of questions, Dr. Risotti.

Go ahead.

Will I always be blind? Did my pecker get blown off?

The questions were so matter-of-factly put that it gave Dr. Risotti a start.

Oh, that’s right. No, no, you’re not blind. We just haven’t taken off the eye patches while you were awake. Your eyes got a flash burn, and we were protecting them and giving them a rest. Here, I think that’s one concern we can get out of the way in a flash. And your penis is fine; it just has a catheter in it. All men hate catheters.

The young doctor quickly removed the taped on eye patches, and light poured into Hunter’s sore eyes. He blinked and squeezed his eyes tightly closed and began to struggle with his wrist restraints.

Hold on. I’ll untie your hands.

The straps required a key, and Dr. Risotti had to leave to get one from the nurse’s station. He undid the restraints and rubbed Hunter’s wrists.

Thanks.

Sure. Sorry to have had to use them, but the last time we undid them, we thought we had hold of a wounded mountain lion. We weren’t sure until right now whether we’d be safe to try it again.

Sorry.

No problem, just glad to have you back.

I’m pretty sore. How about giving me the unvarnished version of what’s broken, what’s not working, and what’s my prognosis.

Nothing broken. Everything’s working fine, at least I’ll be sure about that once we get the Foley catheter out, but I don’t expect any problems.

Can’t be too soon.

And your prognosis is well-nigh perfect. You’re in great shape, just bruised up pretty badly. If you don’t mind me saying so, it looks like you’ve had more than your share of injuries. I have never seen anybody with more scars than you’ve got.

Hunter grew quiet.

I guess some of what I see was from a pretty bad time. I don’t mean to harrow up bad memories, Mr. Caulfield; and my questions are more than morbid curiosity. I need to know something of what you’ve been through to be able to give you the most informed care.

It’s okay, doc. I have spent most of the last thirty plus years trying not to think about it.

His eyes had adjusted to the light.

Okay, maybe this’s more than you really wanted to know; but here goes with the short version. These two are bullet holes.

He pointed to round scars on his chest.

So’re these six on my thigh.

The strain of reaching down to point them out made Hunter slightly light-headed.

You don’t have to overdo. Take a breather.

Hunter sank back into his bed and turned his head aside in his pillow.

After a moment, he felt better and continued his guided tour over the rough topography of his scarred body. Burns here.

Ten perfectly round scars—the hall marks of cigarette burns, of torture—indented his wrists and the dorsums of his feet and behind his knees.

Bayonet stab wound.

He pointed out a large deep scar in his flank.

Just about did me in. The face scar came from a different fight, different bayonet. And these are knife cuts.

Those scars could not be missed. There were two neat rows of knife cut scars, one on each side of his chest. Hunter rolled up on his side to reveal similar rows on his back. Dr. Risotti winced at the thought of what the man must have been through.

How did you get those? he asked respectfully.

Death of a thousand cuts. I was captured by the Viet Cong.

I…I’m sorry, Mr. Caulfield. All I can say is thanks for what you did for us. I’m sorry to bring it all up again.

It’s okay. I survived. Too many didn’t.

Well, the whole country owes you a debt of gratitude, anyway.

Not really. I just did my job. But, you want to know what was the worst wound of all?

Hunter’s face was dead serious.

I would.

I came back out of country in May, 1975 after being in-country for most of ten years. I was walking through San Francisco Airport in my full dress uniform, the only clothes I had. Some young men and women walked up to me and yelled, ‘Baby killer! baby killer!’ Then a nice looking soccer-mom type lady came up and spat in my face.

Throughout the rendition of his terrible physical woundings, the patient had not showed any self pity, anger, or pain of recall, but now he was fighting back tears. His teeth were gritted tight and his jaw clenched to prevent himself from being humiliated. The doctor, remembered his own rush to judgment as a teenager reared by liberal parents. He had been one of those budding hippies who had marched against the Viet Nam vets and shouted the same kind of slogans. He was ashamed for having abandoned thinking and for having behaved so badly in dishonoring the returning soldiers. What a difference there was now; every veteran was being treated as a hero.

I’m sorry, Mr. Caulfield, I didn’t mean to pry.

I’m sorry, doc. I haven’t spoken about any of this to anyone but my wife, and I soon learned that even she couldn’t bear to hear about it. I guess I’m in a weakened condition, and I let down my guard. Sorry.

I’m glad you told me. You probably have some left over PTSD. Maybe it’s good for you to unburden.

When can this horrible Foley catheter come out?

How about now, my friend. Mind if I call you Hunter?

You can call me Harriet if you want, if you just get rid of that torture device.

Dr. Risotti cut off the input tube to the fluid reservoir and released the pressure of the bulb in Hunter’s bladder. The Foley slipped out on its own accord. It felt like a porcupine was being pulled backward out of his raw urethra. The burning did not let up for fifteen minutes.

Thanks a million, Hunter said sarcastically.

Think nothing of it, Dr. Risotti said giving a mock sadistic smile.

Hunter laughed and felt a dozen new pains from the movement.

I’ll go and see what I can find about your family. Were they in the park for sure?

Yeah—in the…what is it?…the Crystal Palace restaurant.

The doctor blanched in recognition.

I’ll look into it and get back to you, Hunter.

He gave a brusque little wave, picked up his clip board and left.

Hunter was surprised at how tired he was after the talk. He fell back to sleep almost against his will. It was early afternoon when he awakened. Dr. Risotti and a late-middle aged man in a reverse collar shirt and black priest’s suit and utilitarian black lace-up shoes were standing in the room when he opened his eyes. He waited expectantly knowing their presence, especially with the solemnity of their facial expressions, could not be good news.

Tell me the worst, he said looking directly at Dr. Risotti.

Hunter, I’m sorry, but the information we have is sketchy at best, but I’ll tell you what we know. You say your family was in the Crystal Palace. There have been no reports of them so far.

He paused for a pregnant moment.

Here it is, then. There is nothing left of the restaurant. Nothing. Where it was sitting is a crater ten feet deep and fifty-five feet across. The cops think it was a suicide bomber with two vests on, one front and one in back. The fire ball you described took out all buildings in a circle a hundred feet across. It was all gone in about five seconds. No bodies have been recovered…or even seen in that hundred feet diameter circle. Forensic teams are sifting through the bits of wreckage that are left. There’re no reports back yet, but it looks like it will be a matter of finding bits of DNA like what was done after 9-11. Incidentally, this was the deadliest attack on U.S. soil since the Twin Towers came down.

He was rushing now, anxious to get it out before he choked up from looking into the stricken man’s eyes.

The authorities have a preliminary guesstimate that as many as six hundred people or even maybe as many as a thousand were killed, another two thousand seriously injured. I’m truly sorry, Hunter. I can’t tell you how much I wish I could give you better news. But, with all of the confusion, who knows? Maybe they’ll turn up.

My nine and a thousand more, Hunter said in a flat resigned voice.

Dr. Risotti and the chaplain put their heads down. They watched the life light go out of Hunter’s eyes. His face turned as gray as a stone, and he turned his head to the wall. The two men left the room sorrowing.

Father Umberto said, I think that is the first time I ever saw a soul die in a man still living.

Hunter was released four days later. His long-time secretary, Constance Nickelson, the COO of Starbright Corporation, Conrad Devlin, and a nurse met him with a limousine for the ride to the airport.

Sorry about what happened, Conrad said as soon as they were in the car. What kind of info do you have about the family, boss?

Hunter was looking at the floor. He responded with a lifeless calm. No final news, yet. Looks bad, though.

We’ll do anything we can to help. You know that.

Thanks Conrad, but there’s not much to do for the moment. I’d just like to get home and to try and sort things out.

The plane ride back to Denver International Airport was disconcerting for the COO and the nurse. Hunter did not volunteer any speech, and only answered questions perfunctorily. He was obviously lost in his thoughts, and from the look on his face, they must have been dark ones. At DIA, Hunter politely told the nurse his services were not needed.

Conrad, do you think you could find who Daniel’s Mormon bishop is…was? I am going to have to think about a funeral.

It was three weeks before three naval officers appeared at his door. The ranking officer, a Seals captain, introduced himself.

Captain Caulfield, I’m Bob Withers. The SecNav asked us to come to directly with some news. May we come in?

Of course, where are my manners?

The three men stood awkwardly facing each other.

Give it to me straight, Captain.

Captain Caulfield, we have the sad duty to inform you that your family members are casualties of war. It has been proved beyond any doubt that a Muslim terrorist suicide bomber blew up a double improvised explosive device in one of the most crowded areas of Disney World. We have positive DNA confirmation from some tissue fragments that match your wife, Rosie, one of your granddaughters—sorry, we can’t be sure which one—and your daughter, Donna. We don’t have confirmation for anyone else in your family. I’m sorry for your loss.

The phrase sounded stock.

Captain Withers looked down, God, man, I am so sorry.

Hunter maintained his composure.

Thank you Captain, Commanders. I’m sorry you caught such hard duty. I’ve been there and done that, and it never got any easier.

No, sir, one of the two commanders said gently. No, sir.

The funeral was held two weeks later in the chapel of the Denver ward of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints to which Daniel, Sr., Daniel, Jr., and Marie had belonged and where they had been so involved and happy after Daniel’s conversion to the faith. The ward bishop, a quiet, soothing, kindly man conducted the funeral with dignity, promises for a better future in the celestial kingdom—which Hunter took to be the Mormon heaven—and the assurance that Hunter would see his family again in the hereafter.

Hunter had never been much of a believer; and, after the fatal explosion, he had lost all faith in God, religion, in the goodness of his fellow men, and even in hope. He was not bitter exactly, but had an empty core. Where love had been, was now resignation. Where hope had been, was a deep void. He could not cry, whether because he was cried out or because his defenses had driven the pain into a compartment of his brain beyond reach.

Hunter had requested that no flowers be given. Instead, he requested that any donations be given to the survivors’ fund of the Disney World disaster. After the bishop’s short eulogy and funeral sermon, Hunter asked that anyone who knew the family might give a eulogy if they wished. The Elders’ Quorum president and the Relief Society president gave short reassuring talks which were glowing with praise for the members of their congregation and brief apologies for not having had the opportunity to know the other departed family members.

There was a feeling of unfinished business in the lone remaining member of the family. When the Relief Society president sat down, Hunter stood and walked slowly to the lectern and gripped the sides of the microphone base hard enough to turn his knuckles white as he composed himself for the upcoming ordeal.

My friends, I can’t thank you enough for all you have done for my family. As I sat there listening to the beautiful eulogies, I felt like you should know all of the family that is no longer here. I am a practical man and not one for euphemisms; so, let me tell you about these people whose lives we honor today. On Saturday, December 14, at precisely the stroke of noon, a terrorist suicide bomber snuffed out the lives of about 729 total innocents in the name of his or her despicable religion.

He paused to let that sink in, and the assembled funeral goers were silent, unused to funeral orations that were not full of sweetness and a blissful trust in the great beyond that beckons us all.

"There will undoubtedly be more once the forensics teams are finished with their work. Besides myself, there were nine members of my family. Here is a brief sketch about each of them; at least, in this place they can be known as human beings, not just statistics in an ongoing war of attrition that appears to be without end.

I will go by families, starting with Daniel Caulfield, Sr., his wife Marie, and his son, Daniel Caulfield, Jr..

Hunter moved quickly through the accomplishments of each of the three knowing that their ward member family already knew almost everything about them.

Next is the family of Stephen Grandel, M.D., his wife, and my beloved daughter, Donna Caulfield Grandel, PhD, their son Evan, and their twin daughters, Camille and Genevieve, age two. Stephen was chief resident in neurosurgery at Johns Hopkins University Hospital. In six months he was slated to join the faculty at Cornell University where he would combine the practice of surgery, surgical teaching, and research in his chosen subject—mathematical computer models of epigenetic memory processes with an eye to attacking the root causes of dementias such as Alzheimer’s disease. His wife… Hunter’s voice faltered for a few moments, and he fought back tears. "his wife, my little girl, was a PhD computer genius employed in mining engineering and security protection for computer networks. She was a loving wife, an outstanding extreme sports athlete, and a doting protective mother. The birth of Donna was the greatest joy of my life.

Evan was a club soccer player and a rascal, full of fun and mischief. He was bright, obedient—most of the time—and full of curiosity and questions. He had his whole life in head of him. Who can say what heights he was going to climb, what service he would render? And he is gone, murdered for the sake of a cruel, mistaken, bigoted religion—for nothing. The two little twins, Camille and Genevieve, were funny, exasperating, loud, demanding, amusing, loving sprites who brought humor and affection wherever they wandered. And they are gone—all of their beauty, grace, enthusiasm, and wonder… Gone. He paused again fighting for control.

"And finally, there is my Rosie, my wife, my love, my support. She was an uncommonly loyal, supremely decent woman. She was bright, had a steel spine, and was a down-to-earth hard worker, loving mother, grandmother, and friend. She was my friend, and she meant everything to me. I have been robbed. I want to believe in your God and your after-life survival and purpose if only so that that good and beautiful woman can obtain her just reward. Perhaps one day when there is a measure of peace on the earth—and the vicious attackers stopped—my frozen heart will thaw enough to let in the concept.

"I have heard much today about the goodness of God and his holy plan. The bishop spoke eloquently about forgiveness and about going on and triumphing over adversity. I have to say to him that I may someday be able to forgive, but that will only be after there is justice. I may one day feel that I have triumphed and can move on, but now there is a cavernous hole in me, a wound that will not heal. I am not a religious man. Pray for me. I have lost touch with the heavens.

Again, thank you for all you have done. I will see those of you who plan to attend the short ceremony at the gravesite right after this service.

There was a closing prayer and a plea to the congregation’s Heavenly Father to attend to the spirit of Rosie and her family to let them rest in peace and to be welcomed into the presence of the Lord one day. Hunter’s short speech had made almost everyone in the audience very uncomfortable. He had said things that one did not say in funerals. But—after all—he was not enlightened in their happy forward looking faith. They pitied him, more for the threat to his soul than for the admittedly terrible loss he had suffered.

CHAPTER THREE

December

The internment site ceremony was very brief—a dedicatory prayer and a brief eulogy by Earl Dactel, CEO of Consolidated Mining. It was a cold December day with an added unpleasant wind-chill index, and only a handful of friends of Stephen and Marie’s from the ward, and of Daniel and Donna’s from their respective university and business attended. There were no caskets or even urns—only a simple brass plaque engraved with the briefest of summations of their lives: their names, dates of birth, dates of death—chillingly, nine memoria all with the same date—lined in two serried rows. Hunter was all but oblivious to the words of the bishop’s counselor’s prayer, to the cold, and to the few people left to shake his hand and to repeat their condolences. It was too cold for anyone to stand around, especially since Hunter was pretty much noncommunicative.

He stood silently and alone in the cold reading again and again the names and dates on the plaques until the visual impact was forever indelibly implanted on his psyche and in nonerasable brain tracts. It was growing dark when he finally turned and reluctantly walked away towards his car.

From behind the shadow of a large Colorado spruce, a tall patrician figure stepped into view.

Hunter, the man said softly, but just loud enough to be heard in the stillness of the growing evening dark.

Hunter recognized the voice; but, at first, could not attach a name to it.

Hunter, it’s Oliver. I wanted to catch you alone to tell you how terrible I feel for what you have suffered. I was at the funeral. Your talk was powerful. I’d like to talk to you about it.

Oliver? Commander Oliver Prentiss, the friend who had my back all those years. It has been a long time. It’s too bad that we had to get together on this occasion. I’m not up to much socializing, I’m afraid. Forgive me.

There’s nothing to forgive. I very much want to talk seriously to you when you have had a chance to collect yourself. Here’s my card—has my home address and number. Natalie and I would like you to come to dinner at our place in Georgetown. Could you fly out the next week or so?

"Let’s make it the first Sunday in January. I have to get all of my nine departeds’ business in order. I should be able to do that by then. How would that be?

Oliver checked his Blackberry.

The 6th. That would be great. Call me if there’s a problem. I will understand perfectly. We should get together. We have a lot to remember, a lot to talk about, and I have a proposition for you.

Hunter raised his eyebrows.

Not now. You need to get some rest. What I have to talk to you about will require that your mind be clear. It can wait.

Thanks, Oliver. I admit to being curious and that my mind is far from clear right now. I’ll be better company by then.

The two men shook hands warmly and separated into the darkness.

CHAPTER FOUR

Early January

With six seconds left in the first half of the annual rivalry between the Minnesota Vikings and the Green Bay Packers, the score was tied 14 to 14. Both NFL teams were unbeaten; and the Las Vegas odds makers had them at even money for the game; but the betting was 6 to 4 that the winner would be in the Super Bowl. Minnesota failed twice in the previous minute to be able to run in for a touchdown or to make a field goal because of a holding penalty and was set to kick the second time. It was fourth down. As the center hiked the ball, and the placer set it; Donovan Parks, the eleven year veteran kicker stepped twice; and the Packers called a time out, its third and final for the quarter. Mall of America Field at HHH was packed to one seat shy of full capacity—64,110 seats filled. The fans and the scores of officials, coaches, and players waited with cacophonous anxiety for play to commence. Minnesota ran back and lined up quickly. Green Bay took its time. The referee blew the starting whistle, and the play clock began to count down—10-9-8. Almost no one noticed as two men walked out onto the 50 yard line.

They raised their arms and screamed the Takbir, Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar.’

Simultaneously each man depressed a metal switch on the front of a thick vest, and MOA stadium exploded into a fireball caught on film, then the television reception went dead.

President Tom Storebridge turned to Secretary of State Jeffery Southem and asked, almost afraid to hear the answer, Owen, what just happened? Tell me it wasn’t what I think.

I’ll find out, Owen Paxton-Reems, chief of staff, said, and dialed a number on his Blackberry.

All eyes in the Oval Office were on the chief of staff. Shock and dismay spread over the rapt faces as they saw Paxton-Reems’ face turn a deathly white and his face contort in disbelief and pain.

Preliminary, but looks like a terrorist. Minneapolis will get back to us as soon as they have anything real to tell us, he said tersely.

President Storebridge knew that his worst nightmare was about to come true. He was going to face his first real presidential test. The bombing in Disney World was a shocker, but both the government and the press had downplayed it as the work of a disgruntled nut or of a fanatic of one stripe or another. There was no absolute proof that that one had been caused by an Islamic extremist. This one could not be explained away even briefly or slightly without him being labeled an appeaser, or worse, a wimp. He was already composing his speech for prime time, all channel, national television and dreaded the very thought of doing it.

The families’ lives had been remarkably orderly. Wills, trusts, disposition of personal property, property deeds, persons to contact in the event of disaster